


doomed from the start

by erintoknow



Series: Aria [24]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Near Death Experience, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: you've got a bad feeling about this





	1. sweet like satsuma

“Nunya! Get your head in the game!”

You teeter dangerously as someone body checks you out of the play area. For a moment you think you’ll be able to pull back and recover and then something gives out in your knee and you topple down. You twist to your side, letting your shoulder take the brunt of the fall as you collapse in a heap. Hair covers your face. So long now, down to your chest normally. The ponytail must have come undone.

“Alright, alright, give her some space.” Neon pink skates push through the crowd of legs into your vision and Rosa leans down to offer you a hand up. “That’s the third time today, Nunya. I think you should talk a break.”

You take her hand and let her pull you to your feet, flinch at the twinge in your leg. “Y-yeah. I guess so.” You frown as you say it.

Rosa smiles, claps you on the shoulder. “Hey, relax. It’s just a game, yeah? You doing okay?”

Now it’s your turn to smile, reassure the press of concerned minds around you. “I’m fine!” Flash a thumbs up, and the immediate wave of relief is palpable. “I think uh, work, has got me distracted.”

Rosa waggles her eyebrows. “Ah. Your mysterious job. Well, say no more.” She pushes you off to the side of the lot, towards the small crowd milling around to watch the game. “You go take a break, get some water.”

“Thanks, Rosa. Sorry g–”

“Stop that! Go!” She pushes you hard enough to send you rolling.

You coast to a stop in front of a yellow sedan, everyone’s stuff piled up in front. One of the other derby girls watching it. The two of you exchange smiles as you sit on the hood of the car and you grab your backpack. Unzip, dig through, there’s the cellphone. A tiny little chrome rectangle of a thing that you could flick open with twist of your wrist.

Hard to believe you have something like this now, but it’s 2013 and you’ve run out of excuses. You can keep in touch with Rosa and the Derby team this way, or sometimes Mr. Lee will get in touch with you about another computer repair job.

And then of course, there were the Rangers. Or more accurately, just Ortega really. But she was the Marshal so pretty much the same thing. Her mods made handling a cellphone… unreliable, but you could always count on Ortega to give you a call whenever the Rangers needed back up.

Five years this year. This past March. Since you started on hormones.

Five Years since you had swallowed your nerves and told a reporter you were Sidestep.

Five years since you met Ortega and were first invited to work with the Rangers.

Look at you now: living as a normal human woman. Hardly anyone suspected these days. Sometimes you could almost forget yourself. Forget what set you apart.

And then you would look into the mirror and see the orange curved into your skin and throw up, or break down, or both.

If you could just figure out a way to get rid of _that_ maybe you could finally leave your old life behind for good. You face already looks different, just from the hormones, though you try to keep it out of the news just to be safe. If you could take care of this too… maybe figure out a proper government ID… maybe then you could finally join the Rangers for real.

Then again, without ever really thinking about it, you’ve been scaling back on the vigilante action since the incident with The Void last year. Not that wouldn’t jump to your feet to help out, or whenever Ortega called. You were still a hero after all. But you no longer really felt the same need to go looking for trouble that you did before.

Maybe it was the nightmares. Yourself, under metal. People around you, a sea of silver, screaming. A man in a hood over trembling earth. Turning a corner to find a shadow that shouldn’t be there… hands on your neck…

You press your eyes shut and shake your head hard. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about. Hold it together. Hold it together Chickadee. Think about something else. Someone else. Like Ortega.

Julia Ortega, holding you up…

You glance down at the phone, not even paying attention to the game at this point. Still no calls. Where _was_ Ortega? Usually she makes a point to see your games. Not that they’re anything official. But still. You’ve gotten used to seeing her there, in the back of crowd. Some dorky disguise that you can’t understand how it fools anyone.

Where is she?

For the heck of it you try calling her, hang-up when you get voicemail. No surprise there.

“Hey,” The other derby girl leans over to you. What was her name again? Izzie? “Hey, you hear about what’s going down in Echo Park?”

You tighten your grip on your phone. “What? No.”

Izzie shakes her head, trying to look grim but you can feel the exciting buzzing in her head. “Some seriously bad shit, girl.”

You bite your lip, focus on her fully. “This… this doesn’t have any to do with all those accidents on the highway does it?”

Her eyes go wide. “Holy shit.” She whispers. “I bet it does!”

A spasm of worry knifes your gut.

“I bet it’s like… some kind secret government project gone wrong.” She’s practically vibrating with excitement now. “Like– Like when all those androids or whatever went nuts in Brazil.”

“The… regenes…?”

“Yeah! Like, you really believe The Man would stop using something like that? No way!”

Nausea bubbles up your throat. “Izzie… there are– there are real people who have died…”

She at least has the decency to pull back, avert her eyes as her face turns red. “Oh. Yeah… S-sorry.”

“You know what…?” You lean down to pull off your skates, swap them out for your real shoes.

“Hey,” Izzie shoots you a glance, hurt. “I said I was sorry.”

“Y-you’re fine,” you lie. “I just… I’m not feeling well.” You rummage around your backpack and pull out your shoes, pull the laces tight. “I’m gonna head back, okay?”

Izzie gives a brittle smile, a small wave of her hand. “Make some soup, that always helps me.”

You smile back, “Good idea. I’ll do that.” You hook the skates to your backpack and sling it over your shoulder. “I’ll see everyone back at the house tonight.” You walk out of the lot, down a block towards the house. Once you’re out of sight of the derby game you make a sharp left.

Time to go see the Rangers. If they hadn’t already been called in, they would be soon.


	2. still a nervous kid after all this time

“Absolutely not.” Ortega folds her hands on the desk, looking up at you. “This is too dangerous."

“Dangerous!?” You slam the desk with your hands and Ortega gives you a tired look. “You’re taking _Steel_ with you!”

“Steel’s power armor can be hooked up with dampeners. You know that. Which is another reason you’re sitting this out.” Ortega creases her eyebrows, a tight frown on her face. “The two of you already can barely stand each other, and I know how irritable those things make you.

You clench your jaw, “I’ll behave. I promise.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” her mouth tips in a slight smile before the frown reasserts. “But the answer is still no. This is some kind of telepathy like we’ve never seen before. I need to make sure everyone I bring in is going to be able to withstand it.”

“_Anathema_?”

“She’s invulnerable.”

You sag, fall back against the wall. “I’ll be fine Ortega. You _need_ more than three people for something like this.”

“Ari…” She stands up from her desk, looking like she wants to reach out to you. You tense up and she lets her hand drop. “I… I know you’ve been through some hard stuff–”

You glare out the window, not facing her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The reports I’ve been reading from… survivors. It’s something that gets in your head. In… In a very bad way.”

“So… what? You think I’m not good enough?”

“No, never. Ariadne, you’re one of the best. But– I can’t take the risk.”

Something in your chest twists at the tone of her voice and the anger drains out of you. You look back at her, “I’ll be _fine_ Ortega.” You brush back your hair, “I’m not letting you go into this one alone okay? People have died. Are _dying_. I’m not sitting this out, no matter what you say.”

Ortega closes her eyes, takes a breath, lets it out. “Alright Ari. You win.” She opens her eyes, narrows in on you, “_Don’t_ make me regret this.”

You grin, tap a hand to your forehead in mock salute. “I won’t let you down Marshal.”


	3. crack in the trap door

The Sun is already starting to set by the time anything happens.

“This whole place reeks.”

“That’s the–” you start.

Steel cuts in, “It’s what death smells like.” You shoot him a glare. He doesn’t pay you any mind, scanning the perimeter, gun at ready.

Anathema grimaces. “Real party today.” She steps up to the front door, rattles it to confirm it’s locked. “Alrighty then.”

“Keep an eye out for anyone still alive,” you follow Ortega’s gaze to the bodies, twisted into unnatural shapes by impact. The broken windows higher up.

There’s a hiss and popping as the metal under Anathema’s hands begins to boil, dissolved into the acid dripping down her fingers. She steps back and shakes her hands, sending little green droplets hissing into the ground.

You flinch away from one that came just a little too close. “Watch it!”

“Then step back Starstruck, you oughta know that by now.” The four of you stand there, watching the metal until it stops melting. Nodding to herself, Anathema reaches through the hole in the metal and unlocks the door, letting it swing open. “Open Sesame!”

Ortega nods and pushes past her, leading the way as the rest of you file in behind. The atrium is cramped, hallways stretching off to the left and right, an elevator and staircase in front.

The stench hits you in the face like a hammer and the burst of coughing is enough to get a look from Ortega. You wave her off. “I’m fine.”

“Elevator’s stuck,” Anathema mashes the up button, none of the lights are on.

You brace yourself against the counter, trying to get a feel for the building. The pressure against your head is even worse than it was outside. Like hands pressing in on a plastic bag full of air. You don’t dare put a feeler, lest you get squashed flat.

You eye the other three. You can handle it. Can they? What does this all look like to Ortega? “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place,” you find yourself saying aloud.

Ortega puts a hand on your shoulder, “Why’d you have to say it like that?”

Anathema rubs her face, “I can’t blame her, we’re in a building surrounded by dead people.”

Steel sighs, squares his shoulders. “It’s our job. Let’s just get on with it.”

Ortega squeezes your shoulder, “Are you good? You can still sit this out.”

Shrug off her shoulder, step away. “I’m fine,” you insist.

“Alright.” There’s the briefest frown of her face, and then team bravado replaces it. “I guess we’re headed upstairs?”

You rub your forehead. “I think so.” The pressure definitely seems to be above you somewhere.

Anathema throws her hands up in the air. “Why is it always in the highest or, like, most remote places? Just once, why can’t the villain be, just… hanging out at the bar or something?”

“That’s why we make the big bucks.” Ortega winks at her, before turning to Steel. “If the elevator’s stuck I guess we’re taking the stairs. You good for it, Steel?”

“Fine.” He grunts. “Let’s just get it over with.” He moves to grip the handrail, the metal twisting under his grip. There’s a creaking of wood with each ponderous step up he takes. Ortega waits to give him some space before following up.

You walk up next to Anathema, covering your mouth so Steel and Ortega won’t hear. “Let’s give them a moment, you know, just in case Steel beams through the stairs.”

Anathema doesn’t laugh, mouth pressed into a grim slash. “Let’s just– Let’s just get going, okay, Sidestep?”

Your smile fades. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

As you step onto the stairs, you catch sight of a hand sticking out of the hallway, the arm resting in a pool of dried blood and you freeze. The face in shadow. Your handler. Slumped in moonlight, blood staining his shirt, panicked thoughts at the edge of memory–

Anathema tugs at your arm, “Hey, Step? Com’on.”

You try not to shudder, swallow down the bile. “I’m coming.”

Hurry up the stairs, the buzz of the dampening field is starting to weaken in the back of your head. You’re getting too far away from Steel. Though it’s hard not to feel a little grateful for it. One less thing tearing at your head. Your focus. You round a corner in the stairwell, pull yourself up, one foot at a time. Don’t mind the twinge in your leg. Derby injury. Should have been more careful. At least this doesn’t look to be too physical a fight.

You can hear Steel and Ortega still walking up the stairs, past the third story. Start at the top and sweep the building on down? Makes as much sense of anything.

Wait– No footsteps behind you, where’s Anathema?

Anathema’s still on the half-level, standing still, hands in out in front of her, palms up.

What– what the hell is she doing?

“I…” Anathema shakes. “I…”

“Themmy?” Panic shoots through you. You hurry down the steps towards her as she clutches her head.

“Stop.” Was… was that you or her that said that?

Her hands are smoking.

Her head is smoking.

A new, horrific smell cuts across the corpse-stench and you have to cling to the railing as your body immediately tries to retch.

This– this isn’t happening. Anathema’s invulnerable. Nothing can hurt her. There’s a scream, (yours?) as Anathema buckles to the ground and you manage to avert your eyes before she falls backwards and a disturbingly wet cracking noise hits the ground.

You retch. You don’t quite get the mask off in time before you vomit over the railing, clinging to it for dear life. Toss your mask to the ground, wipe the vomit from your mouth and chin with the back of your hand. This– this isn’t happening. It’s a hallucination. Some sort of mental trick. You pull your song tight around you, as tight as you possibly can. Choke out any wisp of a hint of anyone else’s thoughts.

This isn’t real.

It’s not real

Anathema’s not–

No no no no no no no no no no

You try to pull yourself to your feet, catch another breath full of something like burned pork under an acidic tinge and retch again.

There’s footsteps. Coming down? Up? They stop.

Voices? Voice? Hers? “Ariadne? Themmy?”

You pull yourself up, spit out stomach bile, wipe the back of your mouth. This is… you have to stop this. Have to end this. Now. Right now. Before anything else happens. Before anyone else–

You leave your mask on the floor. Pull yourself up again.

Have to end this now.

Have to end it.

You march up the stairs, There’s Ortega. Fear in her eyes. Steel’s there. Dazed? Out of it? You can feel the dampener straining under whatever this is. Pushing down on all of you. Hands on bubblewrap.

“Ariadne?” Ortega grabs your wrist, “Ariadne, why’s your mask off? Where’s Themmy?”

“She’s–” You stop, shudder. Can’t trust yourself to speak. Not to throw up again. You shake your head, choke back something like a sob at the stricken look on Ortega’s face. Anathema was supposed to be _safe_. Out of all them, the one guaranteed to still be standing.

Now’s she’s–

Your legs are shaking.

You have to end this _now_, before…

“Ariadne, we need to–”

You pull your arm out of her grip, shake your head. This has to end. It has to end. You push past her before she can grab you. One more half-flight of stairs. Fourth floor.

You can feel it. Up here. Whatever did this. Threatening to crush you. Crushed Themmy. You can hear Ortega yell after you, footsteps behind you.

Have to end it.


	4. we were doomed from the start

Ortega and Steel catch up with you in the hallway. Braced against the wall, hands shaking. You and Ortega exchange looks as she walks past you. Don’t waste this. Down the hallway. It’s here. What ever it is. It’s here. Time to sweep.

There’s a hand on you shoulder, squeezes, then Steel steps past you. You have to–

Have to keep moving. Have to end this.

Push off. Follow after.

Steel and Ortega turn a corner in the hallway just as you hesitate by a door. Cracked open, just barely. You wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the flicker of light piercing through. Room 412. You push it open with your left hand while your right unholsters your plasma caster.

Part of you knows you should stop. Should call for Ortega. Rule number one, don’t head into a situation alone. Work as a team. But–

You have to stop– end this. Push down the empty threat of bile. If you can’t do this, then what good are you for?

The door swings open under you touch. A small living room, light up by the outside light pollution into shades of grey and blue. Windows to your right, something’s– something’s casting a shadow? Someone here? _Alive_?

A searchlight -helicopter? _why_– sweeps shadows across the room. Shadows, human but not, and it’s… it’s hard to turn your head– to see– a painting hung on the wall. Red balloons. Not far enough– who’s here?

“s-s-stop” you choke out and stagger, your bad leg threatening to buckle under you. something not real and too real clinging at your thoughts like tar to feathers but you’re– you’re still standing even as the light passes over the room again, the helicopter’s out of control, spinning. crashing? crashing into what? down another building, the windows rattle and you can turn your head again, see the window for yourself, hand half raised–

cables, pipes, snakes twisting in the grass around the ankles coiled upwards in piercing fangs dripping something that smells worse than corpses, electric and liquid, collecting in pools. why are you here why are you alone always alone no matter how good it gets no one to trust every smiling face another chelsea waiting to happen

You shudder, grind your teeth. Got. To. Get. It. Together.

The living room is starting to brighten, walls turning white. Ghosts attending ghosts. It’s not real not real – bleedover. Bad. This is– This is bad. Hold strong. Hold yourself together. You’ve survived worse. You’ll survive this. You can do this. You have to do this. Have to end it.

Has to be you. It’ll take Ortega too long. Best defense: Good offense. End it.

Can’t– can’t give up. Have to end this. Whatever it is, it’s stronger than you, hopelessly – not hopeless – you’ll get through it. Have to– have to turn– turn to the shadow on the floor, the source, the cause, the font, you need to place your shot. Might get– get only one chance. Need to see there’s bile in your throat again

What’s the caster at? Stun? Lethal? Does it matter? As long as you end it, does it matter? So many dead. Anathema is dead. You have to end this.

The gun’s in your hand, pointed up, you have to end this

end it at the source

you are the source

putting people in danger

by lying

deceiving

ortega trusts you but she shouldn’t – the directive isn’t going to care who gets hurt to get you back, to send a message

you’re just a murderer and a coward and fraud and sooner or later you’ll screw it up, you’ll screw it up and everyone will realize what a hollow thing you are, not a woman, not a man, an it, a thing

who are you fooling? you’re not a hero, you can’t do this

anathema is _dead_ and _you just watched_

if you could stop the nano-swarm why did it take until so many people had died slow, agonizing, horrific deaths until you could be bothered? you’re a failure. can’t do anything right. worthless. worthless. worthless.

Touch of metal brushes your head. It’s the caster. When did you raise it? You choke back a sob. What would happen if you pulled the trigger now? Your body feels lighter now that you aren’t the one moving it, but then who’s driving? Your left hand crossing over to turn up the output dial. Make sure it’ll take you out. That should be good enough.

All they ever wanted was your brain. You can spite them that at least. What fucking good was telepathy anyway? why were you born like this? why were you born?

not born

made– manufactured; frankenstein’s monster for the modern era

you have to end this

put the gun back to your head, drag it down across your skin, where’s the best place to maximize damage? feel too-cool metal on your lips

no one can say you don’t deserve it

“_Ariadne!_” Her voice cuts from a million miles away and hands grab at your arm, pulling, rough, hurting you. The guard’s come back to drag you to your room again. Did you ever really leave? You can’t look at her. “Stop! Ari, stop, what are you doing!?”

they’re going to take you back, they’ll drag you back and then you’ll pay and you’ll pay and you’ll pay because they have to make an example and there you will be

the only way to be safe, to keep her safe, them all safe, is to not be at all

She’s stronger than you. Always. Hands over your’s wrestling the gun away. There’s other options. Other ways. But–

she needs to let you go

you won’t go back

better to die first

you pull the trigger and a brilliant burst of bright green blinds the room, sending ash and smoke scattered across the ceiling. Ortega cries out, yanking back. She’s got the gun but she doesn’t have you. You push off, towards the window. 4 story high, say roughly 12 feet a story, 48 feet high–you’ve got a coin-flip chance of finally being free

“**_Ariadne_**!”

hands try to grab you but find only air, you’re already moving, running, square up your shoulders, hunker down your head, push off– shattering glass cuts into you, through you and you’re out, out in the open, in the air, heads up


	5. tails

and then–

your lungs burst in an expulsion of air and things crack and everything’s white and on fire and somewhere above you someone is screaming a name


	6. you're not going anywhere

Blinding light fills your vision, and then you open your eyes and it only gets worse. Your body’s on fire, but at a distance, as if the pain was a matter of intellectual awareness rather than lived experience. Your head feels cold, exposed, light. You lift a hand to brush your hair, but it stays in place, held down. Try the other hand. Held down. Try to rise up. Something presses at your throat.

A figure in shadow under the lights steps into your field of vision. “You made it. I’m so glad.” There’s no warmth in their voice. Hands shift just out of your vision. Something cold and sharp and metal pinches your neck. “Welcome home, sweetheart.” Black swallows the light from the outside in.


End file.
